Of Fallen Fortune
by jcdenton2012
Summary: Major Brone is a loyal Mordian Officer and war hero, but... a twist of fate is about to leave him dishonored. Left in chains... he will be given "A Last Chance."


Major Cardel Brone of the 28th Mordian Infantry could feel the artillery bombardment through the soles of his boots. Thump, thump, thump; a rolling barrage all along the lip of the trenches. Brown dirt splashed through the air as men and women, servants to the Emperor of Mankind, ran from fixed position to fixed position, returning fire sporadically within the isolated pocket.

It had been six days, six long days since they had been cut off and surrounded from the rest of the regiment. These were good men, loyal men doing their duty, being left to die in the cold trenches filled with the rotting corpses of traitors and loyalists alike fighting to the death within the core of the enemy offensive. His men, good men, numerous dead men in blue dress uniforms with gold trim, lay in massive heaps sunken into the soft watery clay of the ground as the toxic waters slowly consumed them.

"Sir…!" addressed one of the runners scurrying over the corpses, his black boots sinking into the brown mud up to his ankles, jogging towards his superior viewing the carnage of no-mans-land through a pair of binoculars, "Sir…!" he repeated stopping, clanking his heels together, and delivering a crisp parade ground salute, "Report Private Sitte…" replied his superior without turning away his glance from the battered terrain before them where the broken bodies of heretics and loyalists lay sprawling and cut to ribbons amongst razor wire and craters.

"Sir… we have reports of a breach! Right trenches! Enemy infantry are flooding in!" yelled the private as more shells slammed home blasting a small group of Mordian infantry free from their dugout like a gore fountain. Their bodies crumbling down like meaty confetti clad in blue clothe as the shrill cry of alert whistles blew from watchmen along the lines confirming the enemy breach.

"Today…" replied Major Brone while lowering his binoculars with an eerie grin upon his lips, "… is a good day to die. Send word through the lines! Hold or die trying! For the throne!" It was time, the moment, the final last stand of his men left behind and facing the full brunt of the enemy on slot. They would hold these trenches until the enemy purged them without mercy. It would be a glorious death. They would sell themselves dearly.

Major Brone pulled free his power sword and thumbed the activation rune upon the hilt. The weapon was old, a family heirloom, and a sign of nobility. By all rights it should be back on Mordian buried deep within the Brone Family Vaults, but no… it was his heritage and his alone. The weapon had been a gift from his father upon induction into the 28th Mordian Regiment as a sign of respect and love. Kronz knew his son would venture forth into the Emperor's wars and die a noble death. There was no greater calling for a Mordian noble than service to the throne. Thus, the sword had been parted from the family vaults and entrusted upon the eldest son of the reigning Patriarch Kronz Brone as he ventured forth in search of glory for Mordian, Guard, and Empire alike.

Brone ran down the trenches sword in hand, his other freed fingers snatching a laspistol from a fallen corpse slumped up against the broken timbers bleeding fresh dirt into the trenches. Men saw him, his men saw him, and they followed like locust screaming a bloody war cry of barbaric pride. At first there were two, then ten, then fifty, running, reloading their lasguns, firing potshots towards the enemy while flooding forward like a tidal wave.

It did not take long to find the breach. The Mordians rounded a corner and saw things, corrupted things which were once people, butchering the last holdouts mere yards away. Brone fired his laspistol and leapt into the fray of frantic melee. His power sword severed an arm, a leg, a head. The corrupted thing before him slicing away his officers hat with a swipe of his crab claw arm was once a man, but now nothing more than twisted traitor. It screamed frothing spittle from his quad-jaw in a horrid cackle before Brone hacked his power sword into its sternum. Thick black blood trickled down the Mordian Major's hands as he cleaved the monster in twine sending a torrent of filthy purple guts tumbling into the rancid waters of the trenches.

The men followed him. They followed him as he sundered the twisted bodies of chaos cultists into ruins. The fighting was fierce. Men bleed crimson as arms and legs were severed by mutated claws. Countless others were blown apart as artillery rained down with deadly efficiency. Those who died fell into the trenches where the mud claimed them by the hundreds.

But those men, his men, were not alone as the ground claimed them for there were also traitors lain low within the fray. They fell by the score, battered, broken, survivors finished off with talons and laspistols, "The Emperor protects," spat in bitterness by the Mordians. They, the traitors, the mutants, their bodies seeped down into the soil while still stinking of the warp. It was like a rot, a rot of the soul made flesh and blood, but the blood wasn't red. Only human blood was red. Their blood, the blood of the warped, was black and smelt of the rot. Their faith had been weak. Their bodies had broken and been remade into pathetic parodies of mankind mimicking their pathetic lack of faith for the God Emperor. Brone forsook them. They were unworthy to kneel before the lord of mankind even in death. They deserved only his scorn and the worst wickedness the Chaos gods could provide once fallen forevermore.

He cut. He rendered. He fired at close range into the face of woman clad in rags. More of his men fell as a mighty trembling of soil suddenly shook the surrounding lands like a tempest. It was the enemy which broke first as something crept closer from the friendly lines to which he had been cutoff. The enemy broke first. They broke in a panic as some sort of unseen yet felt tide turned in the Mordian's favor.

The ground shook at first just a little, and then with a mighty roar. The Mordians under Brone's command cheered when they saw the wave of iron crest the trenches blasting napalm and cannon fire at the heels of the enemy retreat. Tanks, reinforcements, a full regiment roared over the trenches and broke the enemy push upon the anvil of war. Those foolish enough to turn and fight were torn apart by the armored thrust. They fell in tattered heaps, and then were run over by the tracks of their slayers as the armored regiment continued to push unhindered.

Brone stood there with his men, breathing sharply amongst a mound of dead. They watched the enemy crumble before them. At first no one spoke, and then there was a cheer. That single cheer turned into a roar, but Brone stood and simply laughed. He looked towards the heavens with shards of rain washing down his face and past those two dark green eyes. He laughed like a madman. He laughed because he had survived. This would not be the day he died. He would live… and as fate would have it… he would be dishonored.

…

Brone had served as a soldier, as a warrior, for the Emperor with piety and faith. He was a believer. Not a zealot, but a believer, and there was a distinction to be made. Unlike a zealot, Brone believed in the emperor, and held faith that the lowly hands of even the smallest of his servants could made a difference. He purged the unworthy who turned their backs upon the throne, but never ever upon those of smaller vice. The nature of men was to be flawed, but the Emperor was a god and as a god he was above such trifles. Brone could put his faith into the hands of such a being, but when graded against perfection what was man? Mankind was weak, but… it deserved a second chance… a last chance. Brone wasn't a zealot… he was a believer.

However, he was also of noble blood. There are times when the greater inner workings of the Imperial bureaucracy operated in a way which ground men down into nothingness. This was one such situation. 'They' arrived shortly after the victory when the 28th Mordian Regiment, 66th Hashan Regiment, and 89th Cadian Armored Regiment had successfully recaptured control of Kitan Secundus from a group of cultists and rouge PDF.

The fighting had been brutal and bloody, and it wasn't until that single moment when the long lasting stalemate against the treacherous local PDF had been broken. Major Brone's last stand had bleed and broken the enemy offensive in its tracks. The corrupted locals had been battered into ruin and a massed armored counter-offensive by the Cadians had wrapped up the traitor PDF units. But... for Brone, there was only disgrace despite his battlefield valor, and the awards for his dedication to the Imperial Guard.

As this great victory against Chaos was achieved… they came from Mordian within a small naval destroyer. Once in orbit and after having presented the necessary paperwork, they were shuttled down during the victory celebrations to deliver their message. They were a small detachment of Adeptus Arbites lead by a judge in black armor, and they brought disgrace to the valiant.

They walked towards him during the Victory Celebratory Ball through a throng of twirling couples shuffling along the floor. Numerous party guests dressed in prim and proper attire mumbled amongst themselves while up turning stiff drinks as the grim faced Arbites came to attention before Major Brone, and it was the judge who spoke with a cringe of nasal authority, "Cardel Brone of House Brone," they addressed him causing the entire event being held to halt in silence, "On behest of the Imperial Courts you are hereby under arrest for treason and sedition. We, the servents of the Mordian Courts demand that you place yourself under our authority for transport back to Mordian for sentencing."

"Now see here… what nonsense is this?" demanded General Carl Endrake moving through a throng of guests. People dressed in gaudy clothes gladly parted ways for the elderly gray haired man sporting a coat of combat medals upon his blue dress uniform. One of the Arbites nodded curtly and presented a small paper document with numerous decorative insignia from several lower courts. The judge cleared his throat and addressed the crowd, "Imperial law dictates that sentencing from an offending party be passed down the family bloodlines towards the eldest first born of the existing dynasty. Your great great great great great great great Grandfather Joseph Karl Brone once slapped the then Mordian Governor Drake Franzcovka resulting in the initial charges. Since your father is now deceased and you remain the eldest surviving child, you hereby incur the punishments of the law since your case has now been heard and judgement rendered."

"The Franzcovka line died out six hundred years ago… how can you possibly still try this man?" demanded the general. The judge continued, "Whether or not the Franzcovka line still exists is irrelevant to the eyes of the Imperial Courts. The offense has been judged, and the punishment is to be dispensed."

"You say my father is dead?" asked the naïve Major. The judge nodded curtly with no emotion, "then why is it that my family did not make an appeal on this ruling in my absence?"

The judge grinned icily, "The current presiding heiress to the Brone family was not made aware of the current charges pending in court following your father's death. When the date to renew the counter claims came… she did not know to appear before the courts and reinstate them. The deceased Franzcovka family won by default."

"Now here this… this is lunacy. This man is a hero!" flushed the General. Numerous party guests muttered in the background. It was rare to see such a high ranking officer daring to contest criminal charges by the Arbites in public. Undoubtedly, the general was pushing the reaches of his authority.

"This man," addressed the judge towards Brone, "is a criminal." The General frowned and gritted his teeth. He couldn't stop this situation and Major Brone knew it.

"We have supplied the necessary paperwork from Mordian to that effect, but… we wonder… will you come peacefully and face the Emperors justice, or will you instead choose to refuse and face his wraith."

All eyes within the ballroom focused in on Brone as he painfully absorbed the situation. His father was dead, and a long standing court case unbeknownst to the ascendant heir had left him as a criminal. He had been dishonored, but he was still a believer. Men were flawed, and against perfection such as that of the God Emperor they were nothing. Brone was a man, a flawed man, but the Arbites were the law and the Emperor was the law. He was a loyalist and he had faith, so he had to obey.

"I surrender to judgement," said Brone. The rasp in his voice surprised even himself as two of the Arbites flanked him in a brisk walk before coming to attention… and then they left the hall in silence. General Carl Endrake could still be heard fuming in outrage as hushed voices muttered in the background.

The Arbites were in the technical right, but despite it all… everyone saw the moral wrong being committed. Yet, they were loyal. They had just put down a horde of traitors. There was no debate as to the rights and wrong of the situation being committed. Major Cardel Brone was being arrested and they could do nothing to stop it. The judgement, had been rendered. The Emperors laws had to be enforced… and as the enforcers of gods will how could the Arbites be wrong. Only a traitor would think and act otherwise.


End file.
